


Design Wizards

by Burning_Up_A_Sun



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Banter, Draco is an interior designer, Harry is thicc, M/M, Wizard HGTV, Wizard telly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:22:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 13,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21805864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun/pseuds/Burning_Up_A_Sun
Summary: Blaise is in on the ground floor of Wizarding Telly. Who better to host a show than Draco?(pardon the re use of this one photo. I used too many in the last one)
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 108
Kudos: 210
Collections: 25 Days of Draco and Harry 2019





	1. Building a Mystery

**Author's Note:**

> New fic! Draco is an interior designer (which is an architect for interiors), and Harry is--Harry. Buff. Thicc. Pick a word. 
> 
> This is based on [LiveJournal's 25 Days of Draco and Harry](https://slythindor100.livejournal.com/) photo prompts. I used 13 pix (by mistake!) on [He's Almost You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21630934/chapters/51579577)

Before Draco even settled on the barstool, Blaise had his arm draped over Draco’s shoulder.

“Mate, have I got a once in a lifetime proposition for you.”

And Blaise talked.

Draco should’ve listened better, _would_ have listened better, but he was busy glaring at the back side of a bloke standing down the bar. _Filthy jeans, paint smeared on the back of his thick thighs and arse, like someone had grabbed him and held on._

“Wizard telly…next big thing…reality shows… home improvement…really, the next big thing.”

Blaise droned on, a meaningless buzz in Draco’s ear. “Pansy and I call it _Design Wizards_ …you’ll be the Interior Design Architect…”

_And a common, white vest from ASDA no doubt. Some 2/£5 bargain, the way it clings. It’s so cheap, anyone can see the shift and flex of each muscle when he moves. Absolutely déclassé. Any gentleman with a modicum of decorum would never be sleeveless, unless he worked outdoors._

“…perfect fit…not degreed, mind you…just a real sense for landscaping.”

_And that hair. Even from the distance, it’s an absolute tangled mess—would snap the teeth of any comb. Someone should rake their fingers through it, try to tame it._

_If you like that sort of thing,_ Draco conceded, _he’s hot in an earthy way._

“Research shows that these programs score good ratings if they have a young, handsome man as a host. We think we’ll do even better with 2—”

Draco dragged his eyes away from-- “Was that a compliment? I almost recognized it as such.”

Blaise grinned (the one that he used to win his way into a lot of trousers, Draco’s included). “We have a generous producer who’s committed to the success of the show. Knows the right strings to pull. We’ll start with old homes that have a history of Dark magic. They’ll eat that up, what with how Wizards are accepting the past but want a change.”

Draco glanced down the bar, but the man was gone. Probably thrown out on his generous arse. If he didn’t have the common sense to dress appropriately, that’s exactly what should happen.

“Am I doing this out of the goodness of my heart or—” Draco swirled his Firewhisky around the tumbler, debating whether he’d need another to swallow Blaise’s proposal.

Blaise clapped him on the shoulder. “Salary, huge budget for the renovations, _and_ a hot co-host. And if something develops between you two, all the better for ratings. You in?”

Draco drained his glass, giving himself enough time to think. He had no jobs in the pipeline and his personal vault at Gringott’s held nothing but dust and cobwebs. And if it went balls up, and make no mistake, it _would_ go balls up, at least Blaise was good for a few laughs. “Why the fuck not?”

~*~

The Portkey activated at 10 am, and Draco felt its uncomfortable pull along with jittery excitement. It was the same feeling he had when he opened the door to a newly renovated space and waited for the gasps and aahs.

He stumbled as his feet hit the snowy, uneven ground and worked to remain upright. Grass stains on his trousers would be mortifying and wrinkles would definitely ruin the overall impression of his clothing. He’d spent entirely too long that morning Muggle-ironing the razor crease into his trousers. And thank Merlin for the warming charm he’d imbued his clothing with.

“Keep filming! It will be perfect for the bloopers episode.”

Draco pulled at the cuffs of his dress shirt as he reined in his anger; he didn’t know what bloopers were, but if Blaise were going to try to humiliate him in front of his co-host, that was never going to happen. He looked up from his wrists and stared into the camera with one raised eyebrow. And winked.

“Where’s my counterpart?” Draco looked over his shoulder, around the wrought-iron enclosed square and to the terrace homes. “I know this street!” He grinned as he realized where they were. “My mother brought me here when I was little. To see my grand aunt. She lived right—”

Just as he pointed, the door to Number 12 Grimmauld Place opened. Draco squinted, unable to see more than a blurry figure wearing trousers who might possibly be crossing the street. Or waiting for a cab. Also, it could possibly have been a tree. 

Draco pressed against his blazer pocket, felt the outline of his eye glasses. But if he put them on, Blaise would never let him live it down. He’d be relentless with the “Blind from rubbing one out, Malfoy?” jokes.

“Speaking of,” Blaise said. “He’s right on time. C’mon. Let me reintroduce you.”

 _Re-introduce?_ Draco thought, certain he hadn’t met anyone new recently. He rubbed his eyes and tried to focus on the person heading toward them.

But all he saw was Pansy Parkinson behind the camera that she had jammed in his face. And Harry Potter.

In nasty, painty jeans splattered with other indeterminate stains. A t-shirt that had fared no better than his trousers. And the past five years had done nothing to tame his hair.

And outside? In this weather without a coat? Draco doubted Potter was savvy enough to know a warming charm. 

Blaise pulled Potter into a side hug. “Thanks for agreeing to work with us, Harry. This show’s going to be the top in its time slot. I know it.”

This conversation made no sense. Potter was going to work on the show? _What the hell?_

“You and Malfoy will make perfect foils,” Blaise added, walking Potter toward Draco.

_You and Malfoy…foils…._

Draco grabbed Blaise by the elbow and dragged him aside. “You better not be fucking saying what I think you’re saying.”

Blaise grinned, all sparkly-white teeth, looking so pleased with himself for catching Draco off guard. “Your co-host. The unresolved sexual tension will make the ratings go through the roof.” Blaise chortled.

_Chortled._

Who even chortles?

 _Unresolved sexual tension, my arse. That’s well resolved hatred._ Draco ground his teeth to hold his words back. He’d think of a slow, incredibly painful death for Zabini. And one day, when Blaise had forgotten about this spectacle, he’d kill him. And not one Wizengamot member would convict him, once Draco told his story.

“Alright, Blaise?” Potter asked, coming up behind them. He nodded at Draco and smiled tentatively.

Draco decided at that moment, that when he finally saw his contract, he would sure as hell read every single word of it so there wouldn’t be any additional surprises. And, for good measure, he’d make sure it said that his salary would be based on the ratings.

If Blaise wanted great ratings based on sexual tension, Draco would make that happen. He’d flirt with Potter and laugh every step on his way to Gringott’s.


	2. It's Nice Work If You Can Get It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> based on this pic; 

He couldn’t believe he’d been stupid enough not to ask Blaise about his cohost. 

Potter smiled tentatively; Draco returned Potter’s smile with the one he’d been reliably told was _rakish_ and _adorably hot,_ whatever that meant. “Harry, it’s wonderful to see you. Thank you again for speaking at the trial.”

Potter’s shoulders relaxed, as if he’d been holding himself rigid waiting for a fight. He hesitated, seemed to measure his words. “You’re, uh, yeah, sure. Anything for Narcissa.” Potter pulled off his cap and dragged his fingers through his hair, obviously uncomfortable.

He turned to Blaise. “I saw you at the _Leaky_ last night, but by the time I got to your end of the bar, you’d already gone.”

Draco looked at Potter more carefully. _Inappropriate clothes. Wild hair._ Fucking Merlin, it was Potter last night at the other end bar. Draco choked on air and quickly coughed to cover his embarrassment. As much as he was loath to admit it, he had noticed the man was a bit fit. 

And there was Potter, filling out the seat of those jeans. Actually, the man was one giant muscle. Shoulders, arms, thighs. His abs were probably the photo under the dictionary entry for “six-pack.”

When Pansy pulled Potter aside to talk to him, Blaise turned to Draco. “Mate, you might want to stop staring at Potter.” He laughed openly at Draco, whose face turned red like the frozen berries on the bushes. 

“Are you accusing me of…I’m not...” Draco stuttered, committing homicide in his thoughts. “Just shut it. I just haven’t seen him in years. How do you two even know each other?”

Finished with Pansy, Potter rejoined them in time to hear Draco’s question. “I was helping your mum with her gardens—”

“And _I_ stopped by to pay my respects to your mum, you know, to check in on her because no one else does—” Blaise said with a smirk.

Draco _knew_ Blaise said that to piss him off and wouldn’t rise to it. 

“Yeah, he told me all about the show, and I signed on right there.” Potter looked at Blaise like he hung the moon, the stars, and created magic all at the same time. 

Draco growled and shoved his fists into his trouser pockets so he didn’t strangle Blaise. So Blaise had known about Potter, had recruited Potter before he’d even approached Draco. In his mind, Draco jacked up his demand for percentage of profit from 5% to 10% in his contract. 

“And you’ll do—” What exactly could Potter bring to complement Draco’s architecture and design background? _It certainly wasn’t style,_ Draco thought distastefully. 

“This and that.” Harry smiled sun-bright and carefree, as if Draco and he weren’t mortal enemies. Well, not mortal enemies, because that’s for fairy tales. 

But enemies. 

Ok, they weren’t really _enemies._

But. 

But he _strongly disliked_ Potter.

“You know—I plant things. Grow things. Sometimes I fetch things. I do this and that.” 

Potter looked angelically smug, with a smile that Draco just knew was designed to irritate everyone. 

“I’ll bet you do,” Draco said, which made no sense. He was irritated—at every stupid thing Potter was. His unruly hair falling over his glasses, his perfect teeth behind that wide smile. And now, Draco would have to carry this show, do everything while Potter did nothing, lounging around probably shirtless in the sun. Oh, he knew it was December, but somehow, some way, they would find every opportunity for Potter to be shirtless. Film _him_ all the time, treat him like some muscle-bound Adonis while Draco did every inch of work. 

Potter’s smile faltered for a moment as confusion shaded his face, but Pansy interrupted them. 

“Blaise and I researched this,” she said from behind the camera. “People most likely to own a Wizard telly are our age. Our research shows that they don’t approve of Dark Magic, but at the same time, they respect their past. So, the premise of our show is to approach the owners of the Sacred 28 homes and strip the Dark Magic out and renovate them to something closer to this century. Because it’s most likely that people our age have inherited them but don’t like them, don’t want them.

Potter rubbed the back of his neck. He hesitated and then said, “What if the house doesn’t like it?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Blaise laughed. “It’s a house.”

Draco snorted at his ignorance. “Really? That’s what you think?”

Blaise motioned for Draco to keep talking and repositioned Pansy to film him. 

Draco rolled his eyes but spoke directly to the camera. “I’ve been in ancient homes like that one,” he pointed to Number 12. “These homes, the ones for the so called Sacred 28. They didn’t just provide shelter. They protected their families. The house’s magic would intertwine with the owners’, like wild vines, until they were almost inseparable. And the houses have become like fortresses protecting the Dark Magic and the family.”

He took a breath and turned to Harry, who looked drop-jawed. “We have our work cut out for us.”


	3. I don't like walking around this old and empty house

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> based on this picture 
> 
> They get inside 12 Grimmauld Place. Thank Merlin no one actually lives here, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for following this new fic! ♥
> 
> The chapter title comes from [This Of Monsters And Men song, Little Talks](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ghb6eDopW8I) which I had no idea was the name of this song.

Draco stood on the step of Number 12 and could feel the magic reach out, curl around him. Icy fingers that felt like death and fear and Voldemort caressed his arm, tried to seduce him until it could own him. But beneath the cold, he felt something faint struggling to live, a reedy pulse of innocence and purity. 

“Here we go,” Draco said to the camera with a forced smile. He focused on the undercurrent of peace and opened the door. 

“Holy—fuck.”

The foyer was inky dark; even the midday sunlight from the open front door made little difference. 

_Thank fuck no one lives here,_ Draco thought, making a mental note to ask Pansy or Blaise to set up a meeting with the owner. His philosophy had always been that the owner was the most important person in the process, and that if they were happy then things went much smoother. 

To breach the darkness, Draco cast a _Lumos_ and waved his wand toward the walls.

“No!” Harry shouted and lunged forward, but it was too late. 

"Filth! Scum! By-products of dirt and vileness! Half-breeds, mutants, freaks, begone from this place! How dare you befoul the house of my fathers—” 

Harry pulled the curtain over the portrait of Walburga Black, muffling her voice.

“That was a delightful surprise,” Draco said, rolling his eyes for the benefit of the show, and Harry laughed. 

“No one has ever called it that before.” Harry pushed his fringe off his forehead, but one curl remained, dangling over his scar. 

Blaise traced a circle in the air and mouthed, _Keep going._

“We’re in Islington inside Number 12, Grimmauld Place. It was home to one of the Sacred 28 families, the House of Black, for generations. Full disclosure, my mother’s maiden name was Black. That portrait was Walburga Black, my great aunt. This was her house. She was a delight, as you can tell. 

“One interesting thing about Number 12 is that it’s located in the heart of a Muggle neighborhood. Considering what we just heard from my great aunt, it’s surprising she chose to live here. The house is unplottable and is under a Fidelus Charm, so no Muggle ever bothered them.”

Harry leaned against the handrail to the steps leading to the second story and listened. It was freezing inside this freaking house, and Potter had shucked his winter coat and was wearing some trashy white vest that had seen better days. And the short sleeves did nothing to cover his thick arms. 

“Let’s see what else this old beauty has in store for us—by beauty, I mean the house, not—” Draco motioned toward the portrait. 

Potter laughed at the joke, and that made Draco ~~angry~~ ~~uncomfortable~~ _confused._ Draco shook it off, and motioned for the camera to follow him into the next room. He kept up a running commentary of his observations.

“This must be the formal living room—” he said, stepping into the room to the left of the foyer. Draco swept his finger through thick dust on an end table, which looked to date from the mid-1800s. The table _and_ the dust. 

The room was small, but he could work with that. He’d done wonderful things with smaller. But the couches were beyond old, and judging from the rustling he heard, _something_ was living inside them. If they were lucky, it was just doxies. Given the general lack of repair of the entire house, it could just as easily be rats. Squirrels. Racoons. Possums?!

Draco shivered and pushed the thought out of his mind. As he backed out of the room, his hip knocked into a small end table; a crystal stag wobbled and almost fell from the table. “Thank Merlin no one lives here,” he said as he steadied the statue.

“What?” Harry, Blaise, and Pansy said over each other. 

“What what? Obviously no one lives here. Who could? It’s disgusting.”

“Oi, _I_ live here. It’s not _that_ bad!” Harry said, sounding offended. 

Draco looked around, waiting for one of the three to break and start laughing at their joke. 

No one laughed. 

Draco had heard about Muggle telly shows like this, where they trick some poor sucker and make him look stupid. 

He turned to Harry and narrowed his eyes, as if that would help him see the truth. “I’m not that stupid. You can’t trick me.”

Pansy stopped filming and patted Draco on the shoulder. “Sweetie. Trust me. He’s not lying.”

Harry’s face was bright red, or Draco assumed it was bright. It was too hard to see to be sure. 

Draco motioned for Pansy to start filming again, hoping to make amends. “My apologies, Pot—Harry. We’ll get this liveable—lovely. We’ll get this lovely in no times.”

_Sigh._

The rooms went from bad to worse. Loose floorboards that misbehaved, slapping them on their calves. Doors that refused to open. Stairs that randomly disappeared. Dust covered every surface; Draco swore that even the air was covered in dust. 

It was the single worst house he’d ever seen. 

And Draco wanted to cheer, could feel the excitement


	4. Outside Looking In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brought to you by this prompt: 
> 
> Draco tells Harry he has to live in the house to get the best possible renovation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: shouty boyfriend

Pansy hefted the camera from her shoulder. “Same time tomorrow?” she asked, rubbing her upper arm.

“We’re done? I haven’t even done anything yet?”

Blaise ruffled Draco’s hair. “This is good for today. Besides, we want to give you and Harry time to get to know each other.”

“I don’t need time to know that he hasn’t changed one bit since Hogwarts. He’s still an entitled brat doing nothing while the rest of us work our arses off.” Draco huffed and removed Blaise’s hand from his head. “And don’t touch my hair.”

“Give him a chance, Draco. We’ve all grown up. Especially Pansy, here.”

Pansy punched Blaise in the arm. Based on the way he cringed, it wasn’t a play punch. And it wrinkled his suit jacket. “Damn, Pans.”

“I’ll judge who grew up and who didn’t,” she said, which made no sense to Draco, but a lot of times, she didn’t. 

“Who didn’t grow up?” Potter asked, striding into their group, into their conversation like he belonged there. He was smirking into his coffee mug, as if he had some smart-arse answer and was just waiting for someone to ask. 

“Let’s meet at 9 tomorrow morning. Wear something that looks good,” Blaise added as he headed out the front door. 

“Fuck you, Zabini! I always wear something that looks good.”

“You too, Potter.”

“Oh, I always look good.” And he winked at Blaise.

He _winked_ at Blaise.

**Winked.**

“You really do,” Blaise agreed and kissed Harry. Right on the lips. Soft and slow, lingering like Harry was all there was in the world at that moment for Blaise.

Truly, the world had turned upside down.

“Be careful, Blaise,” Harry finally said, starry eyed and a bit breathless. “Or one day I’ll think you mean it.”

“Get a room.” Pansy fake-gagged.

“Speaking of rooms,” Draco said. “I’ll have that room at the top of the stairs until filming is over.”

“That’s _my_ room!”

“No, until renovation’s done, it’s my room. One reason that I’m excellent at what I do is because I understand that this house has opinions, is an active part of the process. I need to understand the house and it needs to know me. So, I’m staying.”

“Not in _my_ room. Get your own room. There are, like, 100 bedrooms here. Pick another one.”

Potter’s face was pale, but his cheek bones were blotchy red, and he sounded furious. 

“We’ll see,” was as far as Draco would give, partly because he thought it was funny to see Potter so upset. Okay, _mostly_ because he thought it was funny to see Potter so upset. 

Harry walked Blaise and Pansy to the door, whispering furiously about something. Draco didn’t care what it was. To get his typical excellent results, he needed to commune with the house. To commune, he needed to spend as much time as possible inside it, which meant that he needed to stay there during the renovation. It wasn’t his fault if there were only two habitable rooms in the entire house: the kitchen and the one bedroom upstairs. 

Draco shrugged and walked past Potter and out the door. 

“I thought you had to spend every minute of every day inside the house,” Potter snarked, and Draco could feel every word flipping him off. 

“Yes, but I have to make a phone call, and I’ll need to get some things from my flat.” Draco resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at Potter or to say _so there._

Why? Why did being around Potter make him revert to his eleven year old self? 

Because his mobile phone wouldn’t work inside most magical houses, there’d been no reason to bring his. But he hadn’t expected the initial meeting to last as long as it had. 

Draco found a Muggle phone booth around the corner from Grimmauld and ducked inside. When he was certain no one was around, he tapped his wand on the phone and waited for the dial tone before dialing. 

“Hi, love…uh, about that…I can’t make it tonight…Look, I didn’t know until just now…yes, it’s work again…”

Draco held the receiver away from his ear, but Jason was yelling loud enough that Draco had no problem hearing. Over the past year, Draco had learned that when Jason got like this, irrationally angry and shouty, it was easier and faster to let him run his course. 

“I’m sorry that I have to cancel. I’ll be out of town for a week or so. I don’t know if I’ll be able to text…no, there’s no one else…yes, it’s really for work….I’ll miss you, too.”

Draco hung up, and for the thousandth time wondered why he stayed with Jason. So much of his real life was hidden from Jason because he was a Muggle. And he wasn’t sure Jason was The One he’d be willing to tell. 

But he knew the answer. _Jason was better than being alone._

Was it, though?

He thought about that as he apparated home to pack a bag. He debated bringing some of his Muggle electronics, but Grimmauld Place had such ancient magic imbued in it, he’d probably never get them to work. 

It was worth a try. 

And at least he could text Jason if he got lonely. 

Because Merlin knew that Potter wouldn’t be worth talking to.


	5. I Hope He Is A Gentleman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> today's prompt: 
> 
> Draco insists he needs to sleep in the house to get the best Renovation possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED. 
> 
> The title comes from the FOB song "Where Is Your Boy (Tonight)"

_Maybe,_ Draco thought, _the house will have magically cleaned itself._

He stepped into the foyer, still inky dark, and sighed. _Guess not._

“Potter, I’m back.”

Potter dashed up the steps, two at a time. He wore a **Kiss the Cook** apron and held a wooden spoon that dripped something red. 

“I was afraid you wouldn’t be back, that the amount of work had scared you off,” Potter said, catching the spaghetti sauce before it dripped off the spoon. “The house won’t let me make any changes.”

Draco wanted to roll his eyes so hard. Probably Potter didn’t bother trying; he was just saying he had because he was embarrassed to be called out like this. Instead, he said, “What’s that?” His voice as curt and cold as the gates to his flat’s complex.

“It’s spaghetti sauce!” Potter said brightly. “It’s no big deal, just a few tins of tomatoes and paste and diced—”

“Not that you idiot,” Draco said. He pointed to the garish red apron and said, “That.”

Potter’s cheeks flushed pink. “Oh. My ex-boyfriend gave it to me. He said I _cooked_ best in the kitchen.” He used air quotes to emphasize _cooked._

“Fucking Merlin, Potter. There’s not enough bleach to clean that image out of my head, and I swear to God, you better have bleach scrubbed every surface you _cooked_ on…”

Harry laughed. “Don’t worry. We were a pretty traditional, bed-is-best kind of couple.”

Draco sicked up a little in his mouth. “Let’s keep this purely professional, shall we?” But then, his curiosity got the better of him. “Why’d you break up if you were such a _good cook?”_

“Jeez, Malfoy, even you know relationships are more than just sex. He’d started a new career, and it took all of his time. I wanted more than he had time for. Turns out, tall, dark, and hot doesn’t matter if he’s too busy to hang out.”

_Tall, dark, hot, new career?_ Draco mentally face palmed. _Damn. He’d been dating Blaise. And that kiss today…_

“I’m better off. He was always flirting with other people, and I had some suspicions he was maybe doing stuff behind my back.”

“Knowing him, he probably is,” Draco agreed, but when Harry looked at him in confusion, Draco backpedaled. “I mean, whoever he is, yeah, he’s uh—am I wishful thinking or is this foyer not as dark as it was before?”

The foyer was _marginally_ lighter with no reason except the house had decided to make it so. Draco could see the outlines of the stairs to the second floor and an umbrella stand near Walburga’s painting. 

“Hey, you’re right!” Harry turned around and then back to Draco. “You really are a miracle worker.” His grin was wide and bright.

Smoke drifted up the stairs, followed by a high-pitched, insistent beeping. 

“Oh, shit! I forgot about the spaghetti sauce! It’s burning!” Potter ran down the stairs, jumping halfway to the bottom. 

Draco followed at a more reasonable pace. 

Potter rescued the spaghetti sauce and tapped the water pot to boil. While they waited, Potter said, “Blaise left us a camera. It’s just for us. We’re supposed to use it—they said for us to pretend it’s another person we’re talking to.” He shrugged, and Draco was glad it made no sense to Potter, either. 

~*~

After dinner, which Draco was surprised was (a) not poisoned and (b) pretty good, he took his suitcase out of his trouser pocket and set it on the floor. Within seconds, it was regular size. “Time to find you a new room, Potter,” Draco said, wheeling his suitcase out of the kitchen, then levitating it up the stairs. 

“Already told you, Malfoy. That’s a big, fat no. You find a new room.”

With a huff that was supposed to mean _Fine,_ Draco followed Harry up the stairs to the second floor. The view was alright, so that was a bonus. 

The room across from Potter’s was thick with dust. Draco could barely step foot in it; he felt like the darkness would swallow him up. They couldn’t even make it up to the third floor. 

“Well, Potter. Either I get your room or there’s no filming tomorrow and _you_ have to tell your boyfriend that we can’t do it.”

“My what who?”

“Don’t dodge the issue.” Draco returned to Potter’s room, dragging his suitcase through the doorway and dropping it onto the bed. 

While Potter stood in the doorway and spluttered, Draco opened his suitcase and pulled out his toiletry kit and disappeared into the loo. Potter could damn well take his pillow and blanket and sleep somewhere else. He owned the damn house. It _should_ listen to him even if it didn’t listen to Draco. 

When Draco came out, teeth-brushed, face-washed, and wearing only linen pyjama bottoms, he stopped suddenly. “What the fuck?”

Potter was in bed, sitting up. The comforter was pulled waist high, and Potter was shirtless. _Christ, his muscles have muscles,_ Draco thought before he could stop himself from staring at the lines of his abs. 

“What are you staring at?” Potter asked with a smirk. He raised his eyebrow as he asked.  
“I’m wondering why you’re in my bed, shirtless.”

“Oh ho. Not just shirtless.”

Potter began to slide the comforter below his waist, but Malfoy stopped him with a loud “Hey!”

“What? I’m sleeping in my bed just like every other night.” 

Oh, Potter was going to try the innocent look. Like he always slept naked. Draco knew Potter was doing this just to run him off. Well, it wasn’t going to work. 

Draco pulled (but very carefully) the comforter down and climbed in. 

“What are you doing?!” Harry asked, clearly shocked that Draco was staying.

“I’m not sleeping in the kitchen, and the house won’t let me into anywhere else. So, suck it up. We’re going to share a bed like mature adults and tomorrow we won’t speak of it.”

The warmth of another body under the covers, the proximity without actually touching. It was—nice. Draco burrowed under the comforter until only his nose was showing. 

Aw, fuck. He hadn’t wanted Potter to see him with his glasses on, so he hadn’t removed the contact lens spell. But now his wand was in the loo, and his eyes felt like sandpaper. He could get up or he could—

He fell asleep before he could decide.


	6. Doing Lines of Dust and Sweat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> today's prompt 
> 
> Draco blesses the house and asks its permission, and then they clean. Shame it’s too hot to keep shirts on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for following this and for sharing it if you like it!
> 
> The blessing for the house comes from [this article](https://www.apartmenttherapy.com/11-rituals-that-will-give-your-new-home-good-energy-240956)
> 
> The title comes from the Fall Out Boy song [27](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vdlnHgtFdIY)

Draco woke slowly, unwilling to shake off the gorgeous night’s sleep; he hadn’t moved all night, just fell into a deep slumber, waking rested and refreshed. The comforter felt heavy but pleasant over him. But then the comforter moved, adjusted itself, and snuffled. 

Oh Merlin! Potter!

At some point, Potter had curled up behind Draco and wrapped his arms around him. Potter had slid a leg over Draco’s until he’d draped himself like a blanket. It was awkward because Potter was naked, but it was comfortable, held firmly in place. It was like Potter was a weighted blanket.

And, if Draco weren’t mistaken, Potter had an impressive case of morning wood.

Potter snuffled again and shifted until his cock pressed against Draco’s arse, sought out the linen-covered crease and fit itself there.

Each time Potter moved, his cock slid across the space between Draco’s two cheeks, like a lover’s might.

Draco closed his eyes and lied to himself. That this wasn’t the hottest thing that ever happened to him. That Potter wasn’t his type. That Potter was a jerk and a slacker. 

“Morning, Malfoy. Sleep okay?” Potter asked in his ear, a soft scratchy rumble that shouldn’t have been as sexual as it felt. It was as if Potter thought this was the most normal thing, like they woke up each day snuggled together. Potter disengaged himself and walked naked to the en suite loo.

Draco had been right. It _was_ an impressive showing. 

Draco thought limp thoughts, of Quidditch scores and mucking the horses and household budgets, which eventually made his own dick limp. When he couldn’t find another loo on the second floor, he traipsed halfway downstairs before turning around to holler. “Potter! Make sure you put clothes on before you come down!”

When Draco turned around, Blaise and Pansy stood in front of the fireplace, red light on the camera telling Draco everything he’d just said had been recorded. 

“Have a good night, Draco?” Blaise asked with a smirk. “You work pretty damn fast.”

“Jealous, Blaise? You shouldn’t have let him go.” What the fuck was he even saying? He was a design professional, and he’d needed a place to sleep to be rested and in shape for filming today. That’s why he’d taken Potter’s bed. Well, shared.

Pansy smacked Blaise before he could respond. “You knew this was a possibility when you cast both of them.”

“What?” Draco asked, looking from Pansy to Blaise and back again. “What was a possibility?”

“That the two of you would hate fuck—”

“Hate fuck?” Draco’s face drained of any color except the red, high on his cheeks. “There was no hate fucking.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow.

“Wait. Wait! There wasn’t any kind of fucking. No hate fucking. No love fucking. No fucking.” At which point, Draco realized what they’d heard. _Make sure you put some clothes on before you come down._

He stuttered out an explanation about the house and the darkness and sleeping in the same bed out of pure necessity because he wanted to be refreshed and ready for the camera.

“You look ready to me,” Pansy offered and looked pointedly at Draco’s chest.

How the fuck had he forgotten he wasn’t dressed—that he was still only wearing his pyjama bottoms? Five minutes before he’d felt rested and ready to face the day. Now he just wanted to climb back into bed (but not Potter’s!) and hide. 

“You two. Stop filming. Go make coffee or something,” Draco said and dashed back up the stairs. 

_This was all Potter’s fault,_ Draco thought, fuming.

~*~

Once he was fully dressed jeans and a cashmere sweater, Draco allowed filming to begin again. He held a basket in one hand and a fresh cup of black coffee in the other. 

“Before I begin, I always ask permission from the house,” Draco explained to the camera. “Especially houses that have been in families for centuries. We find that the house becomes a protector and will actively fight against anything it perceives will hurt the family.”

Potter, who appeared in his stained jeans and painted on t-shirt, piped up. “The Black family _acquired_ this Muggle house in the mid-1980s—”

“But their magic was so powerful that it leeched into the house in such a short time. Since the only rooms that the house has offered so far are the foyer, the kitchen, and the bedroom—” 

Blaise snorted.

“—Fuck off, Blaise.” Draco didn’t care whether they edited out that comment or not. “As I was saying, the house has only offered up those 3 rooms, so we’ll start out here with our ritual.”

Draco sat on the floor, cross-legged. Thank Merlin he’d worn jeans today instead of his tailored trousers. He surreptitiously swept a finger across the floor and then shuddered. Maybe the house would have liked Potter more if he’d cleaned once in a while. 

Draco unpacked his basket as he explained to the camera. “I have sage,” he said, holding up a flowerpot filled with a soft grey-green plant. “Frankincense and myrrh, and a small vial of dragon’s blood will help cleanse the spirit of the house. And finally—” Draco lit a candle and the aroma of lavender filled the room. He murmured something before arising and placing the candle on the foyer table. 

“What did you just say?” Blaise asked.

“An ancient Wiccan prayer that my mother taught me: Cleanse this space, remove the past. I’ve found my happy home at last. Fill this place with joy and love; send your blessings from above. I say it before I begin any home renovation.”

“What now?” Potter asked, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans which were so tight that frankly, Draco was amazed they fit.

“We wait to see if the house has accepted our good will.”

“And what about the cup of coffee?” Potter pointed to the mug that was still hot under a stasis spell. 

“That’s for me. It’s to help me deal with you.” Draco smiled smugly to the camera, and had no idea that, behind his back, Potter stuck his tongue out. 

“This is great stuff. The audience is going to love it,” Blaise added, laughing. 

Within the hour, the foyer was bathed in sunlight flooding through the sidelights on either edge of the doorway. They noticed it was easier to see into the drawing room. 

“The Black Family tapestry,” Draco said with reverence for the family artifact. He watched Pansy come closer with the camera, and as she scanned it, he said, “I’ve heard about its existence from my mother, but I’ve never seen it.”

It looked gnawed by doxies and was overall in dreadful condition, but the golden thread still shimmered in the barely-there sunlight in the room. Draco traced the fabric with a light touch, afraid it might fall apart under his fingers. 

Potter stood next to him and used a _Lumos_ to follow the gold threads from the names as far back as the Middle Ages to the most recent. He dropped to his knees and dragged his finger over a blasted out spot. It must have been that of Sirius Black.

Potter leaned his head against the wall, and Draco saw his shoulders shaking. Potter’s breath shuddered, and Draco turned to Blaise. “C’mon over here.” He dragged Pansy and the camera away from Potter, wanting to give him the space to grieve in private. He pointed to an obnoxiously large portrait of a reindeer pulling a sleigh. In the background, out of focus, was a man in a red suit. “This, I can’t even begin to explain. Out it goes.”

Draco snapped his fingers, and Potter, whose eyes were red rimmed but seemed alright, lifted the portrait off the wall and headed toward the back garden to the dumpster Draco had transfigured from a small, cardboard box. 

Although it was a week before Christmas, the air in the house was thick and stuffy. Draco shucked the cashmere sweater after only a few moments of cleaning; Potter stripped off his t-shirt, shoving it into his back pocket for use as a rag. Occasionally, he dragged it down his face, and Draco was fairly certain that it left more dirt behind than it removed.  
Draco grudgingly admitted to himself that Potter’s chest wasn’t unpleasant to occasionally look at, if he had to. He thought that he’d seen a small tattoo on Potter’s side, but when he looked closer, _not that he looked closer,_ there was nothing there. He must have been mistaken.

They had to clean the room before Draco could propose any renovations and cleaning was slow going. 

“I think the last time this was cleaned was when Molly Weasley had us do it when the Order’s headquarters was here.” Potter looked around in the mostly empty room. Some pieces of furniture had been taken to the foyer for further inspection and possible use, but most couldn’t be salvaged. Those went into the dumpster, along with the curtains, the doxy-eaten rugs, and most trinkets. The tapestry remained; Draco said he would eventually create a frame from repurposed wood. 

By dinner time, Pansy complained that her shoulder hurt too much to continue shooting, and that she was leaving, and Blaise could come with her or he could—well, it was un-repeatable. Blaise left with her.

Potter headed to the kitchen to begin the process of dinner. 

Draco found the closet that Blaise had set up with the small camera that he and Harry were to use. He called the room The Confessional. 

Draco pushed the button to begin recording and sat on the sturdy stool across from the camera. “We did great work today. This is a lovely, old house with great bones and a lot of love to give. I can feel it. And Potter was dead useful, lugging things to the bin without complaint. Hopefully, though, he’ll leave his shirt on tomorrow to make it easier to concentrate. 

“I mean, for _him_ to concentrate, instead of always wiping down his face,” Draco hurriedly corrected himself. 

As he shut off the camera with a muttered, _shit!_ Draco thought he felt the house sigh and settle. When Draco left the closet, the house felt less gloomy and more like a home.


	7. On the Wing Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this prompt is a stretch, ok? 
> 
> Potter comes to Draco’s aid, and he’s got a really nice smile. And a really great dick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for following along. The title comes from this song [I Love You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=By-xtboJoZc) written by Cole Porter and sung here by Frank Sinatra

Although the blessing and the resultant drawing room purge had lightened up most of the rooms, the bedrooms on the second and third floor remained in darkness so thick it was impossible to enter the rooms. Only Potter’s room was warm and light. 

“Looks like we’re roomies again,” Potter said as he took the stairs to his room two at a time, still full of energy after the long day moving and hauling.

Draco slogged upstairs. “I’m too tired to care.I just want a hot shower and a blanket. Not sure I even care about a bed.”

“Good!” Potter laughed as he began stripping off his shirt and jeans. He pulled the sheets back, but Draco stopped him with a loud squawk.

“Don’t you dare get into that bed until you’ve taken a shower. You’re disgusting.”

“Aw, Malfoy, you say the sweetest things,” Potter laughed. 

His smile was distracting to Draco. It was a nice smile, wide and carefree, like his biggest worry was when he’d have his next cup of coffee.

“I’m serious. You can go after I do.”

“Fine.” But Potter kept teasing Draco, almost sitting on the sheets but popping up when Draco yelled, until they were both laughing. 

“I’ll be three minutes,” Draco said as he shut the loo door to take his shower. “Do not sit on those sheets or I swear to Merlin, I will make you change them.”

Potter turned his arse toward Draco and shimmied it over the mattress. 

Draco slammed the door—before Potter could see that Draco’s dick had inopportunely remembered that morning, snuggling against a naked Potter. He stepped into the shower, which immediately provided hot water, and scrubbed quickly. 

True to his word, he was in and out in under five minutes.

“How did you do that?” Potter’s voice cracked as he asked Draco, who emerged from the steamy bathroom wearing just his pyjama bottoms. “That was fast.”

“Because I actually wash myself instead of daydreaming and tossing off,” he said, towel drying his hair. 

“That’s not fair,” Potter said as he headed into the bathroom. “I don’t daydream.”

Draco folded his dirty clothes. Put them in a stack on one of the bedroom chairs. Moved them into his suitcase. Turned down the sheets on the bed. Thought that was suggestive, so pulled them back up on Potter’s side. Climbed into bed. Got out of bed. Moved his dirty clothes back to the chair so they wouldn’t smudge the clean ones. Got back into bed and rolled on his right side so he was on the edge of the mattress, leaving a bro-space between where they’d each sleep.

Draco struggled to keep his eyes open. He’d done more physical labor today than he usually did. Blaise said it made for better telly. _Y’know what, Blaise? You can fuck right off,_ Draco thought.

“One sneeze and you’re gonna fall off the bed,” Potter said standing at Draco’s bedside. He had wrapped a towel around his waist and held it with his right hand. 

Christ, Potter’s huge dick was obvious underneath the towel, and it was at mouth level. Draco swallowed hard. He didn’t even like Potter, who was—uh—what had he told Blaise? He was having trouble remembering the words he’d used. Entitled and, um, something. His eyes watched rivulets of water trail down Harry’s chest, eventually disappearing into the towel. 

Draco couldn’t touch his own dick, which was thankfully hidden under the heavy blanket. Once Potter got into bed on his own side, Draco’s hard on would subside, and he could get some sleep. 

The problem was, Draco was a left side sleeper. He turned onto his left side to ignore Potter, when then walked around to his own side, dropped his towel and slid between the sheets. But not before giving Draco a full frontal view. 

He should have stayed a right side sleeper. 

At least there was the bro-space.

~*~

There was no bro-space.

Draco woke rested and refreshed, ready to start the day. These two nights had been the best sleep since—well, ever. 

Potter was curled into him again. His arm was draped over Draco’s waist, almost possessively, and his warm breath tickled Draco’s ear. 

Draco sighed and closed his eyes. A little more sleep couldn’t hurt.

~*~

Unless you woke up with a camera in your face and your director/producer saying, “Well, well, well. Isn’t that a pretty sight.”

Before Draco could say anything, Potter said very evenly and evilly, “Get that fucking camera out of our faces, and I swear to Christ that if you ever do this again, we’ll quit the show, and laugh at the money you’ll lose.”

_What he said._

As Blaise and Pansy left the room, Draco heard him mutter, “It’s not my money.”

“That was impressive, Potter. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“I can be a right bastard. Besides, what we do in private should be just that.” Potter rolled over and got out of bed, grumbling about _fucking, goddamn Blaise._ He threw on clothes that were different from the day’s before but still were paint splattered and stained. “I’m going to make breakfast if you want some.”

Potter was out the door, but Draco called him back. “Hey, Potter. Thanks. For that.”

Potter smiled that brilliant smile again. “You’re welcome, Malfoy.”

After Potter left, Draco took a moment to close his eyes and replay what Potter had said. _What we do in private—_ Lovely words, if there were a “we.”

~*~

Potter was waiting with a cup of hot, black coffee for Draco. “I told them once more never to do that again,” he whispered. 

Draco smiled tentatively, tried it on to see how it would feel. He’d been so angry at Potter for so long—for being the hero, for having everything handed to him, for not having to work—for having the life Draco should have had. _He_ was the one who’d grown up privileged, wealthy and from the best family. But his father had gone too deeply in with Voldemort, and his mother sat home alone now with just Draco and her flower gardens. And someone had to pay for the upkeep of the Manor, once the Ministry had taken most of their wealth as ‘reparations.’ 

And now? He didn’t feel anger at all. Something new blossomed, confusing but also shimmery, bright like the angel outlined in lights that hung over his street. He didn’t know what to name it, but it could be not-hatred. Not-despising. Something edging close to—his mind stuttered over the word—like.


	8. I'm So Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is also a bit of a stretch: 
> 
> Laughter, giggles, snickers, and Harry really isn’t sorry at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for following along! and I love your comments!
> 
> The title is from [ Super Fade by Fall Out Boy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=64eM2EJb3Wk)

With his coffee still in hand, Draco sent Blaise and Pansy outside to film exterior shots of the house, garden, and neighborhood. Potter had disappeared, and Draco wanted to find him, maybe talk about that morning. 

The first place Draco tried was the Confessional Closet, and yes, that’s where Potter was. Draco heard his tone but not his words. He still sounded heated, and Draco was fairly certain it was about Blaise and his camera. 

When Potter stepped out, he looked surprised to see Draco, as if maybe Draco had been able to hear what he’d been saying. 

“Did you hear—”

“I’m sorry that—”

“You first,” Potter said, his forehead lined with concern. 

“I’m sorry about this morning. It must have been awkward for Blaise to find you in bed with me.”

“What? Why?” Potter sounded confused, worse than usual. “It wasn’t more awkward than finding you in bed with _me.”_

“Yeah it was. I mean, he’s _your_ ex-boyfriend!”

“Whoa. Wait a mo,” Potter said, hands out to stop Draco. “He’s whose what?”

“Your ex-boyfriend. Tall, dark, hot. New job, takes up lots of time?”

Potter had the gall to laugh—to laugh so hard that he couldn’t breathe. “Oh, my God, that’s perfect. Blaise? You’ve got to be—wait til Blaise hears you think we were fucking.”

“But—but—no!” Oh for fuck’s sake. He’d gotten this so wrong. “You can’t tell him!”

“Oh my God, I’m absolutely going to tell him,” Potter wheezed. 

“No! Trust me! He’ll be so full of himself that I thought someone like you—” 

“Some—like—me?” Potter asked between gulping breaths. 

“You know. Good looking. Muscular…” Draco’s words dropped off. He’d made a mess of it now. “Nothing. Forget I said it.” Draco crossed his arms over his chest, almost daring Potter to continue, and Potter seemed almost to agree. 

Blaise and Pansy stomped back into the house, trailing snowy footprints behind them. “What are we working on today?”

Potter started laughing again which morphed into hiccups, and Draco elbowed him in the gut as a reminder. Draco tried to look threatening or angry or at least maybe stern, but he began to giggle.

“What the hell is in that coffee?” Blaise demanded, hands on his hips, which only made them laugh harder. 

“Nothing,” Draco laughed. “It’s just—tall, dark, and—”

He and Potter dissolved into laughter again, and Blaise threw up his hands and left. 

When he could breathe, Draco said, “Thanks, Pot—Harry. For what you said to Blaise this morning. That was—” 

_Fucking hot,_ his brain supplied. 

“My pleasure,” Potter said, and his smile was beautiful, warm enough to melt the snow outside. 

“I guess we should find Blaise—” Draco managed to say, but his mind wasn’t here. It was back in bed, with Harry’s arm slung over his waist, possessive and protective. 

He needed to call Jason; it was time to end that hot mess. Jason wasn’t right for him, and he certainly wasn’t good for him. And if he allowed himself to be tethered to the wrong person, he might miss the right person when he came along. 

~*~

The house must have appreciated the respect they’d shown the day before, scrubbing floors and walls and windows the Muggle way, because it opened more of its ground floor rooms. Draco knew it was a matter of earning its trust. 

With the drawing room completed the day before, they moved into the study. 

Draco spoke to the camera. “I can really feel the Dark Magic in this room. It feels—cold, wet, slimy. It sits in my stomach like dread and what I really want to do right now is run.” He struggles to smile and adds, “But that would make for bad telly, right?”

They clean and scrub, bin things that are unsalvageable, but the feeling never leaves the room. 

Harry pulls Draco aside. “God, I can’t stand it in here any more. Do you know why it’s not getting better?”

Draco motioned for Pansy and Blaise. “Look, I know it’s early, but let’s take a lunch break. I have to get out of this house and shake this feeling.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He grabbed Harry’s hand and pulled him out the front door. They were barely down the steps when Harry stopped. “Damn. I wish we’d got jackets.”

Draco shook his head and worked not to laugh. “Sometimes, Potter, it’s like you forget you’re a wizard.” Draco looked around; they were alone on the street. All he could do was hope no one was watching from the windows. He cast long term warming charms on them both, and Harry sighed.

“Nice.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You can do that, too. You have the technology.”

Harry’s laughter spilled out again, and Draco liked the way his eyes squinted when he giggled, the way his curls bounced when he full on laughed. The way Harry rested a hand on Draco’s arm, like somehow touching Draco would ground him. 

They’d only walked a block when Draco found the phone booth. “Gimme a second, okay?”

Draco entered the red booth and took a deep breath before spelling the phone to work. “Jason? Yeah, I know it’s the middle of the day…yes, I’m okay. No accident…yes, I know how I am, prone to accidents…” 

He rolled his eyes. _Prone to accidents, my ass,_ Draco thought. _I haven’t had a single one on this job now have I?_

“Look Jason, I’d rather do this in person, but—what? You what? Me? I’m away too much? That’s why you? You know what? Fine. Box up my shit at your flat; on second thought, don’t bother. Just throw it in the bin.” Draco slammed the receiver down.

“Everything okay?” Harry asked, tentatively. 

“Yeah, great. My boyfriend just broke up with me. He said I was away too much.” Draco let out an _Aaaaaaaaagh!_ that echoed through the street like it was a tunnel. “How dare he, when I was going to break up with him?”

Draco’s anger bubbled over into laughter. He’d laughed more today than he had in all the months with Jason. “Come on. I’ll buy you lunch.”

They walked up the snowy pavement, looking for a decent shop that served lunch. Harry stopped him and let the early lunch crowd pass. “I’m sorry he broke up with you.”

But he didn’t look sorry at all.


	9. This Kiss, This Kiss, Unstoppable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brought to you by this prompt, which is most definitely NOT a Gainsborough  
> 
> 
> The house has DEFINITE opinions about DRARRY....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: I stop before anything good happens...that's for tomorrow.
> 
> The title of this chapter comes from [This Kiss by Faith Hill](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v8sk6LEfeyU)

The feelings of dread and despair remained in the study long after it had been scrubbed and redesigned. Something niggled in the back of Draco’s mind, a feeling or a memory from long ago that he couldn’t pluck out.

“I’m going to try something,” Draco said to Harry, who became increasingly edgier the longer they worked in the study. “But you can’t laugh.”

“I would never,” Harry said with a straight face that lasted about ten seconds before their laughter started.

Blaise circled his finger in the air. “C’mon. Film is expensive, and our benefactor wants to see a completed episode before they’ll pay for a full show.”

“Ok,” Draco gulped and mostly settled himself. He positioned himself in the center of the room and held his wand flat in his palm. “We come to you with all respect due to a home of your stature. We seek only to restore you to your former self, first by removing all Dark Magic. Help us to help you by showing us where the Dark Magic is centered.”

The room was silent. Draco held his palm up so the wand could act as a compass. The wand jumped out of his hand and, suspended in the air, it pointed downward, directly at the floor. 

“That was bloody brilliant,” Harry said, slapping Draco’s back.

“Let’s get rid of the rug and see if that’s it,” Draco said, rolling back the end of the Persian carpet to reveal beautiful hardwood flooring. They quickly rolled it, and even though it was almost room sized, Harry hefted it out back to the construction bin. 

Still, the wand hovered in the air. 

“Shit. It’s under the floor boards,” Harry said. He pulled his wand from his back pocket and laying it on the floor. “Show me,” he said, and his wand took off, skidding to a stop on the spot where the desk had been. 

“Perfect hiding spot! Right under the desk where my great uncle would have thought it safest.” He turned to Harry and whispered, “That was bloody brilliant,” with a wink.

Harry tapped each board with his wand, pulling the nails out and loosening the boards until he could pry them up with his fingers.

When a giant splinter lodged in Harry’s finger, and he spewed a lot of curses that couldn’t be shown pre-watershed, Draco rolled his eyes at the camera. “He forgets he’s a wizard sometimes. It’s a bit adorable.”

With his splintery finger, Harry flipped off Draco. 

In the end, they found a stash of items imbued with Dark Magic. Lockets, rings, even a few vials of potions that Draco couldn’t identify. “I don’t know how to remove the magic from these items—” he began.

Harry cut him off. “I bet your mother would.” His excitement was contagious, and Draco nodded enthusiastically. 

“I’ll owl her when we’re done. But for now—” Draco raised the items from their hiding spot. “Give me your vest.” 

“My what now?”

“Your shirt. Give me your shirt.” Draco waggled his fingers in a _hurry, hurry_ motion. “I need to make a bag to contain these things.”

Harry smoothed his hand down his dusty, sweat-stained, formerly white vest. “Use your own shirt!”

Draco gasped. “This is a ZILLI. It’s Italian silk! I will not use it!” He adjusted the collar to make sure that it sat perfectly, to reaffirm that it was too perfect to use.

“Whatever,” Harry huffed and stripped off his shirt. Draco swore that he prolonged, lifting it slower than he did at night when he ripped it off and tossed it on the bedroom floor. 

For a moment, he saw the dark lines of a tattoo—or thought he did—but again, it was gone. Maybe they needed a break. 

Draco transfigured Harry’s vest into a bag of sorts and lowered the Dark items into it. Once he added a stasis charm and a _Protego_ to shield them from its effects, the feeling of dread slithered away. The room felt brighter, happier.

Draco grabbed his wand and said, “I’m going to try something—” And he enlarged the windows until they were virtually the entire wall. “What do you think?” he asked Harry.

“Wow” was all Harry could say. 

“I’ll add in an insulation spell so that the cold won’t come through. This way you can enjoy the park view year-round.”

“That’s—brilliant,” Harry said in awe. “I love that park! And the room feels brilliant, too. It’s all—”

“Brilliant?” Draco asked with a grin. 

“Brilliant!”

~*~

Narcissa owl’d back before their lunch break was finished that they were welcome to visit and that perhaps they would like to bring the filming crew and come for Christmas dinner.

“How the hell does she know about the show?”

“Uh—” Blaise stuttered. “I may have mentioned it to her when I was visiting. Like a good son does. You should try it.”

Draco felt the muscles in his jaw and shoulders immediately tense. “I do visit.” _I don’t visit. Not enough. The manor. The memories. Voldemort--_  
“I’m going to need new furniture,” Harry interrupted. 

Draco was thankful for the change of topic. With a sigh of relief, he said, “We can go to Hogsmeade tomorrow, if you like. I know an eclectic little resale shop. Everything from antiques to kitsch?”

Harry nodded, then said, “Did you feel that? It was like a shift in the atmosphere. It feels—lighter in here. Less—oppressive.”

Draco wanted to poke Harry for his use of the word oppressive, but the thing was, he was right. Suddenly, the house did feel less depressing. He jumped up from the kitchen table and sprinted up the stairs. The main floor had more light streaming in, but that could have been from the renovation. The test would be the second and third floors.

“Yes!” Draco called out as he headed up the stairs from the foyer. “Second floor is all open. I can see the third floor, too! It’s all clear.”

Harry had followed Draco to the second floor. “Oh,” he said, his shoulders slumped. “All the rooms are open.”

Draco’s excitement waned. If other rooms were available, there was no need for him to stay in Harry’s room. 

And that sucked. 

~*~

They finished filming well into the evening. The house allowed changes easily, moving walls, expanding rooms, even adding a loo on the first floor and en suite bathrooms on the second floor. 

The only thing it wouldn’t give up (besides the portrait of Walburga) was a painting of London Bridge that was stuck to a wall at the top of the third floor landing. 

“Blaise! Pansy! Bring the camera!” Draco yelled down the stairwell. 

“Get closer! Look at that signature! It says Gainsborough! I think it’s a lost Gainsborough. Merlin, what a discovery. Potter, you’re rich.”

In his excitement, he hugged Harry, who was next to him. He held on a beat too long and when he pulled away, Harry wouldn’t quite let him go. Draco pulled back only far enough to look into Harry’s face, and the air between them felt charged, changed. The camera, the painting, the house all faded away to just them and just this. 

Blaise cleared his throat.

“You arse! Why did you do that,” Pansy whispered harshly. “This is great. The audience is gonna love it.”

Harry released Draco. “Yeah. I’m rich.” It was a slow smile, happy with a sense of peace. 

“Blaise, can we stop for tonight?” Draco asked, wanting only to get back to Harry. “It’s late, and we’ve worked hard—” 

Harry quickly agreed.

Blaise didn’t buy it for one moment. “Sure, sure. Tomorrow we’ll meet in Hogsmeade. Make sure you’re there by 11. That should give you enough time.” He rolled his eyes at them before nudging Pansy down the stairs.

She filmed all the way down until she couldn’t see them any more. 

Draco and Harry stayed on the third-floor landing, barely aware that Blaise and Pansy had seen themselves out. 

Since the war, Draco didn’t believe in taking risks. He’d taken too many, way too many in those two years between Voldemort’s return and death. Inside the Manor, away from Voldemort and Greyback’s search for fresh meat. In the Room of Requirement, working on the Vanishing Cabinet. At the trials, praying to every god he knew of to keep him out of Azkaban.

No more risks. 

Until today. 

He reached his hand out to touch the curve of Harry’s cheekbone with his thumb to see if his skin were as soft as it seemed. But the risk—was it worth it? 

“I’ve only known you three days,” Draco said, his voice hushed afraid it would carry in the stairwell and sound foolish. 

“Ten years and three days.” Harry guided Draco’s hand to his cheek. “I’ve known you since I was eleven. That’s a long time—long enough to know—”

“It’s a risk, Harry. A huge risk.”

“Most things really worth it are.” Harry closed the gap between them, rested his smudged forehead against Draco’s. 

Draco brushed his nose against Harry’s. He could close the minute distance, take a chance, kiss Harry. He thought Harry might want him to. But he wasn’t brave enough, wasn’t brave at all.

**_Slam!_ **

**_Slam!_ **

**_Slam!_ **

**_Slam!_ **

The two jumped apart, shocked by the noise. The mood broken by the doors closing.

“Jesus, what the fuck?” Harry asked, scrubbing his hand on his face.

“The three bedroom doors up here—they slammed shut. I think—” 

Draco tried the doorknobs; they were all locked up tight. He raced down to the second floor, followed by Harry. Regulus’ bedroom door was closed and locked, also.

Harry cupped Draco’s face gently with his wide, calloused hands. “The house thinks you should sleep with me again.” 

Draco bit his lip. The house had locked every bedroom except Harry’s, which was warm and bathed in soft light, different than it had been. 

“But—”

Harry kissed him, brushed his lips over Draco’s. “I think it’s worth the risk,” he said. “You’re worth the risk.”

Draco kissed Harry, kissed until they couldn’t breathe, until the room spun, until the world spun. 

Until he was where he knew he should be.


	10. So Good, So Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TODAY'S PROMPT: 
> 
> Draco traced his fingers down Harry’s bare chest. It was grimy with dust and sweat from the day’s hard work, but Draco didn’t care. “You need a shower.”
> 
> “Join me.” It wasn’t a question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the [Slythindor100's 25 Days of Draco and Harry](https://slythindor100.livejournal.com/) is officially over, I still have 3 more chapters.

They stood together on the landing outside Harry’s bedroom. The light spilling into the hall was warm and muted; the air around Draco felt charged with possibility. He just needed to be brave and take the risk, no matter how big it felt.

The house had trusted him; maybe he needed to trust the house.

Draco traced his fingers down Harry’s bare chest. It was grimy with dust and sweat from the day’s hard work, but Draco didn’t care. “You need a shower.”

“Join me.” It wasn’t a question.

Harry took Draco’s hand, fingers entwined, and led him into the bathroom. He ran the water for the shower, but it was already hot, ready for them. 

Slowly, Harry unbuttoned Draco’s blue silk shirt and let it puddle on the floor. Draco’s shoulders were sore from the days of work, and as if Harry knew, he kissed one shoulder and across Draco’s prominent clavicle to the other. 

“Okay if I—” Harry didn’t finish with words. Instead, he dropped his hands to Draco’s button and fly.

“God, yes,” Draco whispered, his tongue wetting his lips in case they forgot how to work.

He stepped out of his trousers and removed his pants without Harry asking. 

This risk. Of not being enough. Not tall enough or thin enough or thick enough. The risk of giving himself over and having his heart broken. 

But the alternative was being alone and lonely. Or worse, with someone who made him feel alone and lonely. 

Harry was so many things, an arse, oblivious, filthy, unkempt, but when Draco was with him, he felt seen and heard, fully present. Listened to and understood, and what more could he ask for?

Maybe it wasn’t a risk at all. 

Harry stared at Draco’s naked body and looked like he was trying hard to keep his hands off Draco. 

“You can touch me—if you want,” Draco said. He took Harry’s hand and laid his palm flat over where his heart raced. 

Harry’s breath caught, like this was the most intimate gesture someone had ever done. “Your skin is soft. I like it.”

“Let me see you,” Draco said, pushing Harry’s jeans and boxers down over his hips. “Jesus,” Draco breathed as he looked at Harry’s already hard cock. It was thick and stood upright, angled toward the trail of thick, coarse hair leading down from Harry’s navel.

Harry stepped into the shower and put his hand out for Draco. They stood under the hot spray, let it pound against their sore muscles until some of the ache melted away.

Harry eyes were closed, and his lashes fanned dark against his cheeks. Draco wondered how he’d ever thought Harry was a mess because he was the most beautiful person Draco had ever seen. 

Harry reached for the soap, but Draco stopped him. “Let me.” He washed Harry’s shoulders, his chest, his stomach and listened to Harry’s breath for when it hitched. At the nipples and when Draco’s hand came close to Harry’s hard cock but didn’t touch it. 

He slowly turned Harry toward the spray to rinse off as Draco washed his wide back. He teased Harry, dragging the soap along the crease between his arse cheeks but not dipping inside.

“Jesus, fuck, Draco—”

Draco turned Harry back toward him and then sank to his knees. The tub was hard, and he would regret this later, but right now, he needed this. To taste Harry and just know. 

He takes Harry into his mouth, and he’s the biggest Draco’s ever been with (because, of course he is). Harry’s loud and totally into it, calling Draco _his baby_ and telling him how good he is at this, _good, so so good._

It’s the fucking hottest blow job he’s ever been part of. He’s got his left hand on Harry’s cock, and his right hand on himself. He can’t jerk himself and blow Harry at the same time; he’s mostly trying to stop himself from coming before Harry does. When Harry slides his fingers into Draco’s hair and tugs, Draco thinks he’s going to come from just that.

Taking a chance, he moves both of his hands to Harry’s arse and slides a finger into the crevice and circles Harry’s hole.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, yes…” It’s almost a chant as Harry fucks Draco’s mouth, and his hips lose their rhythm, and Harry spills into Draco’s mouth.

Harry’s knees buckle, and he catches himself before he sinks to the tub. 

Draco can’t wait, wants it now, _needs_ it now, and pumps into his fist until he comes. 

He doesn’t know about Harry, but Draco is too wobbly to move, too deliciously relaxed. But the tub floor is a bitch on his knees, and the hot water is running out. 

Harry offers him a hand up; Draco sees that he’s still breathing heavy, and damn, but Draco’s proud of himself. 

They stepped out, one at a time, and Harry toweled Draco until he was dry, then took care of himself. 

“Come to bed,” Harry said, pulling down the sheets and comforter.

“Does the room smell like roses?” Draco asked as he slid between the sheets. “It didn’t used to smell like roses.”

“The house likes you,” Harry mumbled into Draco’s chest and fell asleep.  
Draco lay awake with Harry curled into him and wondered how one of Blaise’s money-making schemes had finally worked out for someone. 

He felt something move under his hand on Harry’s shoulder. _The tattoo._ It slithered to Harry’s chest, and Draco could finally see it. 

It was an elegant, intricate dragon.


	11. Damn the Torpedoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt: 
> 
> In the middle of Tickles’ Fine Furnishings and Rug Emporium, on camera that may be edited out or might make the final footage, Draco kissed Harry. Not a peck, but not heated and passionate.
> 
> A comfortable kiss. One that said _I’ve known you half my life, and I want to love you the rest.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is short, but it said everything it needed to say!

The sunlight streaming through the window woke Draco, who was warm and well-rested, and tangled up in Harry.

_This would be an okay way to wake up forever,_ he thought with a smile. 

“This is nice,” Harry mumbled. “But you wake up too early.”

Draco laughed. “I don’t know how to tell you this, Potter, but it’s not early.” He tried to roll over to check the time, but Harry held him tighter.

“Nope. Not going anywhere.”

“If we don’t get up, we’re going to have a camera in our faces,” Draco began to say, but Harry’s hand was trailing down his hip, then to his dick, which had been half hard probably most of the night.

“I want this,” Draco said breathlessly. “I want this so much, but I don’t want to be interrupted by Blaise and Pansy. I want to take our time.”

Harry nodded with a sigh. “Yeah, but it would make for great telly.”

Draco waggled his eyebrows. “Maybe we can use the Confessional camera—”

“I love it!”

Harry kissed him, a quick one to punctuate his sentence, and then slower, sweeter.

“Oi! Potter! Malfoy!” Pansy’s holler thundered up the stairs. 

Draco and Harry flung apart, flew to opposite edges of the bed, as if they’d been caught by parents and then laughed at how stupid they felt. 

“Time to get up,” Harry said, rolling out of bed.

Draco thought he heard a tinge of sadness in Harry’s voice. He grabbed Harry on the way to the bathroom and kissed him slowly. “We’ll cut filming short today. Promise.”

~*~

The four of them apparated to Hogsmeade, which was cold under the clear blue sky. There were Muggle furniture stores he preferred, but with Blaise and Pansy in tow, a wizarding store was simpler. For all of their integration talk, they still gawked when they encountered Muggles.

Draco learned within moments that Harry was incapable of making a decision. 

“Do you like patterned upholstery or solid color?”

“I don’t care.”

“Do you prefer formal furniture or more casual?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“This chair is overstuffed? Do you like it or do you prefer—”

“Whatever.”

“Merlin, Potter! Can you please just make a freaking decision?” Draco yelled in Tickles’ Fine Furnishings and Rug Emporium. 

Harry, easy going Harry who’d let so many things slide, who’d let Draco make every decision inside the house, exploded. “Don’t you dare say that to me. I’ve never had anything of my own. Ever. I grew up in a cupboard under the stairs with a mattress that had springs that stuck me if I moved. I went from Hogwarts to Grimmauld Place, and I was just happy to have someplace to live. 

“I’m safe for the first time in my life, so I don’t really give a shit about patterns or styles. If you like it, get it. If it’s something you’ll sit on and never leave the house, buy two. I literally do not care as long as you’re part of it.”

Harry’s face was bright red; Draco didn’t know if it were from yelling or—

“Did you just ask me to live with you?”

“No,” Potter said in a way that completely sounded like _yes._ “Because that would be weird. We just met.”

“No. We met 10 years and four days ago,” Draco said, reminding Harry what he had said the night before. “Long enough to know.”

In the middle of Tickles’ Fine Furnishings and Rug Emporium, on camera that may be edited out or might make the final footage, Draco kissed Harry. Not a peck, but not heated and passionate.

A comfortable kiss. One that said _I’ve known you half my life, and I want to love you the rest.”_

And damn the furniture and rugs. 


	12. When I Think Of You, I Touch Myself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because the fest was actually over on 12/25, I'm going to use the last two pic prompts today. They are  
>  and 
> 
> Draco learns who the mysterious producer is and what their ultimate plan was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for following this fic. I hope you enjoyed it.

The re-design of the interior flew by, and Draco knew it was courtesy of the house. It had locked doors, slapped them with loose floorboards, turned the third-floor stairs into a slide. If it hadn’t wanted to change, it wouldn’t have. 

The furniture from Tickles’ was magically delivered and put in place on the sanded and varnished original hardwood floors. They hung new paintings on the walls atop fresh paint. 

The house even gave up its hold on Walburga’s portrait, which Draco took as a final benediction. One morning she was gone. They never did learn where she went, but Draco suspected it was to another Black family property. 

Hopefully, not Malfoy Manor.

~*~

Draco and Harry squeezed into the Confessional closet. 

“This is our last one of these—” Draco began. 

“Today’s our last day of filming,” Harry added. “We’re done here, but since the weather is nice, we’re going over to Malfoy Manor to take a few cuttings from the garden to transplant here.”

“Harry is the horticulturalist of the two of us. He said the Manor’s holly trees will transplant easily—”

“And there walls out back really need ivy on them.”

“Plus, it will be nice to see Mother. I think.” Draco frowned for a second. “I haven’t seen her in almost a year. And Christmas Eve is a good day for it, right?”

“She misses you.” Harry took Draco’s hand and held it in his. “She talks about you all the time when I’m there.”

Draco swallowed hard. That sounded—wrong. He should visit her; he knew that. But the Manor and its memories. It was difficult to explain. The last time he’d been there, he’d felt small and helpless, flooded by flashbacks of war trauma.

“I’ll be with you,” Harry said, squeezing Draco’s hand. “Right next to you. And your mum will help, too.”

Draco kissed Harry, forgetting that everything in the confessional was fair game for the telly show. 

~*~

Draco, Harry, Blaise, and Pansy apparated in front of the gates of Malfoy Manor. 

“Thank Merlin the peacocks are gone,” Blaise said, looking around. “They were one of the most evil things about this place!”

Draco laughed, but he knew it was true. He’d been pecked more times than he could count. He looked at the Manor with a critical eye, as if he were a stranger. “This place could use a good coat of paint and to have most of this overgrown landscaping dug up.”

“Your mum won’t listen when I mention that, so good luck,” Harry said, stooping to pull a weed growing between the pavement cracks. 

“Let’s see what it looks like inside,” Pansy said, opening the front door while filming. 

Draco was torn by the shabby interior with peeling wallpaper and dirty carpets and realized for the first time how much upkeep the Manor would take for daily chores but also big projects like painting and renovating.

While she may not be able to take on the larger tasks, she had decorated for Christmas. Fairy lights were strung along the windows and across the mantle, intertwined with forest greenery she’d found. The Christmas tree was a small one on a table top, a far cry from the floor-to-ceiling ones they’d had when he was a child, but somehow this one was much more elegant. Under the tree were a few beautifully wrapped packages. 

“Welcome everyone! Welcome!” Narcissa walked quickly up the hall to greet them. “Happy Christmas! Please come in.”

She ushered them into the Drawing Room, which was neat and clean but far dingier than he’d remembered. They took seats across from her, and Draco felt a little like they were on trial.

“Blaise, lovely to see you again. I’ve missed our talks. And you too, Pansy. Harry, I’ve so missed the time we spent in my gardens.” She took each one by the hand and held it, looking into their eyes as she spoke to them. 

But for Draco, she was much more reserved. “How are you, Draco?”

He stands up, and she takes a long look. The light in his eyes that had for too long been dimmed. The smile on his lips. The smooth set of his shoulders, not hiked up in distress. “You look well.”

“I am. I’ve met someone, and we’re very happy together.” Draco couldn’t hold back his grin.

“I’m looking forward to hearing about him—if you would like to tell me.”

He reached out for her—tentatively enough that she could pull away—and hugged her tightly. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too, but I’ve understood.” Her breath caught, and Draco was afraid she was crying.

They stood together long enough for her to compose herself, and when she sat down in her chair, Draco turned to Blaise. 

“I have a brilliant idea! The Manor should be next. We can eliminate the Dark Magic, and renovate it, and let’s face it. Everyone would watch to see where He Who Shall Not Be Named had lived for a year.”

Draco quickly explained everything to his mother. The silent producer who provided the money for the telly show. Renovating Grimmauld Place. How she should come over and see it because she wouldn’t recognize it.

By the time he’d begun telling her about Grimmauld, he’d grabbed Harry’s hand and held it. 

“Do you think Harry would mind if I visited?” she asked, definitely not looking at their hands. 

“I’d love it,” Harry said. “We’d love it.”

“We?” she asked innocently. “The designer and the owner.”

“No, Mother—Harry and I—we enjoyed working together and decided to try living together.”

“Oh, yes of course. There are probably a dozen bedrooms in that old place. Plenty of room for two people to live in.” She nodded wisely.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Mother. Harry and I—” and he kissed Harry in a way he was fairly sure wasn’t fit for company.

“Pay up, Blaise.” Narcissa held out her hand and pointed to her empty palm. “You said you were good for it.”

Blaise grumbled as he pulled his wallet out of his trousers’ back pocket. “It was never supposed to work.”

“Wait.”

“Yeah, wait! What’s going on?” Harry asked, cutting off Draco.

“Your mother suggested the show, and insisted that you and Draco would have great _chemistry_ on screen. I said you’d kill each other. We made a small wager. She said you’d wind up in bed. I said you’d be at each other’s throats.”

Blaise slapped a stack of Galleons into Narcissa’s hand. “There, you old witch. I’m never betting you again.”

“Oh, but you happily took my money to produce the show!”

Her laugh was so happy, so like when he was young, that Draco couldn’t even be angry with her for her lying and manipulating ways.

“Mother knows best,” she said to Draco with a tiny kiss on his cheek. “And yes, let’s do the Manor second. I have some ideas I’d like to try.”

Before they’d left the mansion, Narcissa handed Harry and Draco each a small box. “For you both but open them when you’re alone.”

They were glad they’d followed her directions and waited until filming was over for the day.

Each box contained a pair of thong underwear, declaring, _When I think of you, I touch my elf._

“Jesus, Malfoy, your mother’s a menace.” Harry said, holding the thong up by one of the side strings. 

“She always seemed to be such a nice old lady.” Draco shook his head. “Where did I go wrong raising her?”

Although Draco and Harry tried the thongs on, they didn’t stay on for very long.

“S’ok,” Harry said between kisses. “Christmas is about unwrapping _packages.”_

It was a terrible joke, and Draco didn’t mind at all.


End file.
